


Dragon Age Drabbles

by randomcheeses



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomcheeses/pseuds/randomcheeses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles, short stories and silliness. Also heartbreak. It is Dragon Age after all.</p><p>Ch14: "Oi! Your Gracious Ladybits!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dread Wolf Take You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kmeme prompt I filled ages ago. Also, spoilers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously spoilers

The Dread Wolf take you!" Inquisitor Lavellan cried, throwing a ball of fire towards the last of the group of fanatic mages who had attacked her, Solas and Cole on their way back to Skyhold.  
  
Behind her, Lavellan's companions relaxed, relieved that the fight was over. Cole re-sheathed his knives and his face resumed it's habitual half vacant expression. Solas idly dug in his pocket for some cloth to clean the blood from the blade of his staff.  
  
 _Ah, Lavellan_ the elven mage thought, as she turned back to them, her beautiful face flushed from the exertion of the fight, _I would much rather-_  
  
"Take you, hold you down, make you sigh with pleasure, scream for more, beg for my touch, my chosen mate, ma vhen-" muttered Cole quite audibly, to Solas' mounting horror.  
  
Lavellan blinked. "What?"  
  
"Um, ah, I think he must be picking up on a past event from this area," Solas said quickly, his words almost tumbling over one another, "this is a nice spot, some beautiful scenery apart from the dead mages, probably popular with lovers, couples from the village probably come here all the time . . ." He trailed off. Lavellan was staring at him as if he'd grown another head.   
  
There was a brief silence.   
  
"Right," Lavellan said eventually. "Okay. Let's just get back to Skyhold, shall we?" She turned on her heel and marched away determinedly.  
  
His cheeks red with embarrassment, the Dread Wolf meekly followed her.  
  
 _At least Mythal will never hear about this_ he told himself. _Or any of the others. Thank goodness. I have never been-_  
  
"So humiliated, not in a thousand years, she must think me a babbling fool," murmured a soft voice behind him.  
  
"Cole. Please. Stop."


	2. Shitty Boyfriends

"My apostate boyfriend dumped me minutes after telling me an awful truth about my culturally significant tattoos. And he took those away too," Inquisitor Lavellan slurred. "I'm _barefaced_ now!" She paused. "I don't want them back though. Slavery. Ick."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Hawke replied after swallowing a mouthful of beer and grimacing. "Well, _my_ apostate boyfriend tricked me into searching through poop in a sewer. _And_ he pulled the old 'maybe you don't really love me' card when I tried to question him about it. And _then_ he used the poop to blow up a chantry!"  
  
The Warden, seated at the other end of the table with a large mug of beer, made a series of complicated hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions, ending with a bitter scowl.  
  
The tipsy inquisitor blinked in confusion. "Huh?"  
  
"Her non-apostate boyfriend dumped her right after she made him King of Fereldan," Hawke translated.  
  
"Bastard," the Inquisitor said sympathetically.  
  
The Warden nodded emphatically.  
  
"No more boyfriends!" Hawke declared. "Am I right, or am I right?"  
  
"Right!" the Inquisitor said, as the Warden nodded emphatically again. "From now on, girlfriends only!"


	3. Would you leave me, if I told you what I’ve done?

Perhaps she'd understand. Perhaps.   
  
If he could just explain properly.   
  
Not here. Somewhere else. Somewhere he could show her the truth.  
  
If only she understood, if only _she_ believed in him. Then he could face the whole world.  
  
She wouldn't. In his mind he could already see the horror in her eyes. The betrayal.  
  
Even so, she deserved the truth. He owed it to her. Even if she hated him. And she would.  
  
But, perhaps . . .


	4. I long for him and torment myself

It had been months now since she'd last seen him. He was clearly not coming back.  
  
She couldn't go to the rotunda any more. She couldn't bear the sight of all those beautiful frescoes he'd painted to commemorate her deeds. The last time she'd gone there the sight of the last patch of wall, with it's plaster outline ready to be painted, had caused her to burst into tears. It would never be coloured, would remain pale and unfinished.  
  
Months had passed. He was not coming back. That was abundantly obvious now. She would not pine, would not mope and sit about longing for a man who clearly didn't want her. She would not be that pathetic, foolish, lovesick little girl.  
  
Not in public, anyway.


	5. Stop Helping Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Really.

“Moonlight pale on your skin, the touch of his hand against your waist. _Ar lath ma, vhenan_. A kiss that makes your heart stutter. You’re so happy. This time things will work out. There will be a life, a future together. But then, I am sorry. I distracted you from your duties. It will never happen again.”  
  
“Cole,” the inquisitor begged, agony colouring her voice as she raised her red-rimmed eyes to the spirit-boy’s face. “Please. _Stop helping me_. Either take it away or go away, but either way just _stop_.”  
  
The spirit cocked his head, surprised. “Oh. Alright.”   
  
He reached out a hand to her and horror crossed the inquisitor’s face as realisation of his intent dawned on her a second too late.  
  
A moment later her face cleared and she blinked. “I’m sorry, Cole. What were we talking about?”


	6. Throne of the Gods

It was big. It was jewel - encrusted. It was sculpted from red gold and black marble by the hands of a master now many centuries dead.  
  
Inquisitor Lavellan looked at it critically. "Seriously?" she asked her companion. "You used to sit on _that_?"  
  
"Well, yes," he admitted, a trace of guilt crossing his face. "I was a deity. It was the done thing."  
  
Lavellan sighed. "Vivienne and Dorian were right," she declared mournfully. "You have _no_ taste."  
  
He sniffed, a trifle frostily. "At least it isn't covered in dog carvings."  
  
"Hey! I like those!"  
  
"Precisely my point, vhenan."


	7. Cassandra Pentaghast - Agony Aunt

“Cassandra.”  
  
The Seeker looked up from her book. “Inquisitor,” she said, getting to her feet. “What can I do for you?”  
  
Herah Adaar, Lady Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, ruler of Skyhold, and seven and half foot tall horned former Vashoth mercenary, cleared her throat. “Cassandra,” she said again.  
  
“Yes, Inquisitor?”  
  
“You read . . . romantic books.”  
  
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I do,” she said matter-of-factly. “And?”  
  
Herah cleared her throat again. “So, in your books, when a human wants to . . .” she trailed off, shifting awkwardly on her feet.  
  
“Wants to what, Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, her tone flat. She had a sneaking suspicion she was going to end up the butt of a joke.  
  
“Wants to . . . let someone know they’re very special,” Adaar blurted. “How do they do it? I mean, do you just tell them? Or should it be formal? Or is there gifts? And what kind? My father gave my mother a broadsword. Should I get her a broadsword? Or maybe armour? What if she doesn’t like it?!”  
  
Cassandra’s mouth dropped open. For a moment she stared blankly at the Inquisitor. Then the part of her that loved romance and had read every novel, no matter how trashy, that she could get her hands on, gave the rest of her brain a kick.  
  
“Inquisitor, are you . . . asking for romantic advice?”  
  
“Yes,” Herah said desparately. “For Josephi- I mean, Lady Montilyet. You will help, won’t you?”  
  
Cassandra’s eyes seemed to take on an inner glow.   
  
“Right,” the Seeker said firmly her tone filled with glorious purpose. “First you should start with flowers.”


	8. Mountain Climbing

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor, _please_ be careful!” Cassandra begs, watching as Herah Adaar scrambles her way up the cliff.

Herah turns her head to face the Seeker and grins. “Don’t worry so much, Cassandra. I’m completely fine.” She jumps, straight up, lands on the very edge of the cliff top and immediately loses her balance.

Both of Herah’s arms and one leg flail awkwardly as she struggles not to topple. A second later she loses the battle for balance and goes backwards off the cliff – only to be caught by Iron Bull’s outstretched arm and hauled back to safety.

It’s not until her lungs start protesting that Cassandra remembers to breathe again.


	9. Well, shit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!

"You're Fen'harel?" You?"  
  
"Yes," Solas said flatly. He was getting tired of repeating himself.  
  
Varric hissed through his teeth. "Okay," he said, "I think I speak for all present when I say _'well, shit'_."  
  
"Yup," the Iron Bull agreed. "I think that about covers it."


	10. Doll Collection

Josephine Montilyet looked at the scene before her in a rather dazed fashion. When the Inquisitor had first met the King of Fereldan, it had been right after a rather harrowing experience and things had been rather tense on all sides. Especially as King Alistair had already been in rather a bad mood with the Inquisition's new Mage allies. So, once Skyhold was in relatively habitable condition, Josephine had invited His Majesty on a diplomatic visit to Her Worship in the hope that Inquisition-Fereldan relations could be moved from icy to merely slightly cool.   
  
The scene she was now watching unfold was beyond her wildest dreams. It was also extremely disconcerting.  
  
"Ooh!" squealed the Inquisitor as King Alistair showed her a six-inch carved wooden figure in a Grey Warden uniform. "I haven't got that one! Where did you find it?"  
  
"The Wonders of Thedas shop in Denerim," the King replied proudly. "They get all the editions. They always send me the first ones they have in stock. Look, the arms and legs move!" He looked at the Inquisitor's delighted face as she admired the little figure. "I could make the same arrangement for you, if you like, your Worship," he added magnanimously.  
  
The Inquisitor's eyes shined. "Really?" the seven-foot tall Qunari asked breathlessly. "That's so good of you, your Majesty!"  
  
"Call me Alistair, please!"  
  
"Alright, but only if you call me Herah."  
  
"Gladly. Hey, what did you think of the last collection. I thought the paintwork was a bit-"  
  
"Careless, yes, I noticed that too. There's a noticeable blob of red on the Hawke figure's face."  
  
Josephine sighed at this interchange and walked away. There was unlikely to be any serious trade negotiating done today. Still, at least they seemed to be getting along.  
  
"I cannot believe that the Herald of Andraste and the Warden-King are bonding over dolls," she muttered to Leliana, who had just appeared at her side.  
  
"Not dolls," Leliana corrected seriously. "Action figures."


	11. Stargazing

“Stupid – Maker damned – lump – of – metal –rock- whatever!” the Inquisitor panted, kicking the astrarium. “I have an army of the faithful at my beck and call. I hold the fate of nations in my very hands and I can’t get this stupid glorified children’s toy to _bloody well work!”_

“Perhaps we could return later, Inquisitor?” Cassandra suggested. “We have other duties to attend to and the day is moving on. The astrarium is going nowhere.”

“No!” the Inquisitor snapped, restarting the quasi-magical mechanism. “I will not be beaten by a lump of rock and metal. I will solve this puzzle if it kills me!”

“Yes,” Cassandra murmured to herself. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”


	12. Common cold

Solas sneezed pitifully and retreated as far as possible under the pile of blankets. This, he thought, was surely an excellent contender for one of the most miserable points of his existence. Falling victim to a mortal illness! The common cold, no less.

He winced as the sound of the door opening seemed to echo through his already pounding skull.

“Solas?” a soft voice asked. “Are you here? Leliana told me you were _sick.”_

He couldn’t blame the speaker for the surprise in her voice. His normal state of being was one of almost offensive healthiness compared to most modern elves. But a week in the Fallow Mire had affected even his constitution.

“Vhenan,” he croaked in reply. “You should not come in. I am probably contag-” He broke off, coughing miserably.

The Inquisitor shoved the door open and strode quickly to the bed on which Solas had constructed a nest of blankets. She sat down next to him, ignoring his protests and put a small steaming bowl of liquid into his trembling hands.

“Elfroot soup,” she told him. “Drink up. It’ll fix you up in a trice.”

Solas sniffed the liquid and grimaced. “Smells like tea,” he muttered.

“Nonsense,” the Inquisitor retorted cheerfully. “Besides, you’re so blocked up that you can’t possibly smell anything. Now, drink.”

Solas raised the bowl to his lips and sipped carefully. His lips twisted. “Ugh,” he pronounced fervently. He made to put the bowl aside and was stopped by a look from the Inquisitor.

“Sa’lath,” she said sadly, apparently hurt by his reaction. “It really will help. I made it for you myself. Please try just a little more.”

He sighed. “Vhenan, I am aware that you are trying to manipulate me.”

“Good,” she replied. “Is it working? It’s a family recipe, you know, one of the few things I have left of my Mamae.”

He blinked at her. “Are you invoking your deceased mother just to make me drink this . . . liquid.”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor said without a trace of shame. “Mamae would absolutely approve,” she assured him. “Now drink up.”

Solas gave up and drank.

“Urrrgh,” he coughed, swallowing the last mouthful.

“Don’t worry, sa’lath, a few more bowlfuls and you’ll be as good as new.”

Solas shuddered.


	13. I hope you're joking

"Varric!" the Inquisitor said brightly. "How do you feel about going on an expedition to the Deep Roads?"  
  
Varric gave the a inquisitor a Look. "I hope you're joking, your Inquisitorialness."  
  
"Uh, nope. Orzammar sent us a letter. They're asking for inquisition help with some earthquakes."  
  
"Earthquakes," Varric repeated slowly, his face a picture. "In the Deep Roads. And you want me to come."  
  
"Please," the Inquisitor said. "The letter says we're supposed to meet some 'Shaper Valta' from Orzammar. That sounds important. I need someone who's familiar with how Orzammar does things. That's you."  
  
Varric groaned inwardly. A Shaper. Just Great. "Inquisitor," he tried, "I'm a surface dwarf. Definitely not on Orzammar's 'approved' list.  
  
"You're _Merchant's Guild,_ " the Inquisitor pointed out. "That's different."  
  
Varric sighed. "I did write an entire book about the consequences of my last little trip to the Deep Roads. Remember?"  
  
"Exactly!" the Inquisitor said triumphantly. "So you're practically an _expert!_ "  
  
Varric gave up. "I'm going to regret this. I just know it," he said mournfully.  
  
"Nonsense! It'll be fun!"


	14. Martyr

In the moment of her enemy’s defeat, she had slipped as the remaining ruins of the ancient temple cracked and shattered under her feat. Down she had tumbled, falling rocks striking her painfully, until at last she had come to a stop.  
  
Now, here she lay on a thin ledge, splayed out unmoving, her aching body bleeding sluggishly from the many cuts that had been inflicted upon it.  
  
Would they find her body? she wondered. Or would it rot here on this mountain, forgotten?  
  
Here was the glorious herald of Andraste, she thought bitterly as her vision began to fade. Another martyred woman dying for the silent Maker-  
  
“Oi! Inky! Is that you? Hold on!”  
  
-then again, perhaps not.


End file.
